Captivity
by yas-m
Summary: OK, I did some changes, if you have never read this just go directly to chapter 6 Captivity if you havethen also go to chapter six :D it explains more about what I did there, sorry. Post LTDA. Jack POV of captivity. Angst. Jate.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Captivity

**Pairing:** Jack/Kate - ish

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** Post "Live Together, Die Alone". Jack POV of being held captive. Angst.

**Spoilers:** up till season 2 finale

**Disclaimer:** Pretty sure it's not mine.

**Captivity**

Chapter 1

His consciousness returned to him like an electric shock rupturing through his body, his breath escaping his throat with a jerk.

As his mind and body took to adjust to his surroundings, his senses twitched back.

A flood of memories, a confusing film reel of deception, guilt and anxiety. Michael's betrayal. Hurley's release. Their capture. Him. Sawyer. Kate. _Kate_. That look they shared. Fear. Trust. Blame. Confidence. Regret. Forgiveness. Something more. Something else. The emerald green gaze forever burnt in his mind, engraved inside him somewhere, deep down.

His eyes winced as the dull, piercing light of a swinging light bulb above him penetrated his dilated pupils. Painfully, things around him started to take form and shade. A room, he figured out first, a cell. Stone walls with peeled off, antiquated paint, that could have been white at some point in time, has now taken a dirty beige color instead, a rusty metal door to his right locked from the outside with a decaying chain and lock, he assumed, a dirty leaky ceiling, painted lazily one hot afternoon by a reluctant volunteer, patches of dirty colors, a cracked window high up on the wall facing him, mold growing freely around the leaky frame, a spider living comfortably on its sill. A window impossibly high to look out through, tragically too small to escape from.

Solitude.

Numbness in his fingers excruciated his sense of touch back into him. Throbbing pain pinching at his leg. Burning stings wrapping his wrists. Slashing whips of anguish slithering along his spine. Tied to a creaking, wooden chair, one leg shorter than the rest.

His sense of smell stung his throat as an agonizing odor penetrated his nostrils. Banefully the indistinct odors started to wreak familiar through his mind. Rust, mold, humidity, sweat and blood.

His own blood. He realized as its taste flooded his mouth, copper and pain. His mouth dry and gagged, with the nauseating taste of pain, fear, anger and guilt screeching down to his gut.

His hearing came back last with the faint sound of barefoot struts on a worn out concrete floor outside his door. Three distinct strides. One of a man whose rough, callused hand once held an out-dated gun to Kate's terrified neck, a man whose words and size too large for his name. One of a woman, who seems to walk among and above men, more mysterious than the men themselves, with an articulation that trickles with poise and malice. In front of them, the stride of a man whose small frame is compensated by the confidence in his voice, the diablerie in his eyes, and the conspiracy in his every move. A man who knows too much, says too little and manipulates with every breath.

Three rusty hinges squeak as a termite-infested door is flung open. The three pair of feet now stride on softer ground. Muffled voices dripping with cruelty soak through the decaying walls separating him from them.

A wicked laugh; as a new irate voice joins the disdainful three. Unlike theirs, he hears her voice clearly.

"Where's Jack?"

"What did you do to him?"

"You've been telling me the same lies for the past three days!"

"I want to see him!"

_Three days?_ _He's been out for three days?_ His mind struggles to comprehend.

'Kate!', he tries to call out to her, his voice betraying him. 'KATE!', he strains again. His own words stabbing at his throat, failing to escape his lips.

Anger in her voice, straining to hide the fear behind the bravado of confidence and contempt.

He can see her. Standing full of confidence, matching Henry glare for glare. Shoulders straight, arms crossed, keeping her guard up against all intrusions and intruders. She bites her lower lip when Henry is not looking, clenches her jaw tight when he is. Her tears glaze her eyes, too stubborn and determined to reveal themselves to her captors. Armed by her stubbornness, rage and concern, she stands up against the evil she knows too little about.

The fifth voice is all too familiar yet surprisingly different. The southern brawl of a man who can be his worst enemy or his best friend. He hears him grunt his discontent and spit a scornful of fury at at a man he had once told that it was not over yet between them. His voice drenched with hatred and sincerity, and a faint sense of genuine concern.

Their voices tell him they have not been harmed, physically at least. Yet her silent sobs, and the occasional hushed cracks in his sputter, tell him there are wounds there too deep and too numerous to heal, not even with time.

Another snerk, and the door slams shut. The struts of three mysteries faint away.

He hears her shoulders drop, tears still refusing to fall from their fortress. He sees him walk up to her. Tired hands to weakened shoulders. A small, grateful smile and she shrugs him off, walks away. His head shakes. Strands of dirty, blonde hair wave hopelessly along a fatigued frown.

He hears her throw herself down, something softer, a matress, old, dirty and worn-out. She does not care. He sees her face fall in her hands, and tears, once obstinate, give in and flood down her face, stained and wet. He hears her quiet sobs, shoulders shaking slightly, knees up against her chest.

She gives herself a minute, a minute of unguarded vulnerability, before she pulls herself together, wipes her face, pulls a tendril of disheveled hair behind her ear. Smiles, embarassed, at the man who had been watching from a distance.

He returns the smile, regretful and sympathetic. Asks her absurdly if she is fine, she nods, lies that she is and looks away. He lets his mind wonder if she would have cried had it been him, if she would have yelled at the others like she did for Jack. He shakes off the thought, scorns himself for it, knows himself the fool to even consider, knows he will never be Jack, especially not for Kate.

Jack's head drops, wrists and ankles pull at their restraints, blood seeping through mud-stained ropes. Tries once more to call for her, but not before consciousness escapes him, again.


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N.:** thanks for the reviews, glad you guys liked :D although this was planned as a oneshot, thought I'd add. I have to say, though, that I don't really know where this is going or if there is a plot per se. Just trying to imagine being held captive from Jack's POV.

**Disclaimer: **yeah, I checked, not mine.

Captivity 

Chapter 2

"Jack."

"Jack."

A hoarse unforgiving voice calls his name. His eyelids blink. Once. Twice.

"Jack!"

And he wakes.

"Good to finally have you with us, Jack."

Words not said but sneered from a source his vision to weak to give form to.

"For a while there, we thought we'd lost you, Jack."

His name is spit in his face as though it were an insult.

He tries to move. Still bound to a chair.

"We've been waiting for you to wake up for a week."

He looks around him. Vaguely familiar room, smell, light. Excruciating pain.

"You must be quite hungry and very dehydrated, Jack."

Derision in those words. He tries to move. Overwhelming anguish dashes through his body. Every muscle burns. Head throbs with a million questions.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions."

Jack tries to talk. Dryness. Weak-old blood occupies his mouth. Gagged. Heavy eyes drop to his arms. Three needle marks. Recognizes from a life he once had. Blood tests. Strains to remember how or when.

"Don't worry, nothing serious. We had to run a few tests. Probably what kept you out for a week."

Kate and Sawyer. They were not tested. Somehow he knows. Remembers faintly two voices bickering, through a mold infested stone wall, with three. Others.

"I apologize if your current quarters are not as lavish as the one you had provided for me once."

Henry.

"Don't worry. We will be moving you to some place more appropriate in a few minutes."

Rage. Confusion. Weakness. Guilt.

"We'll get you some new clothes. Water and food. Maybe let you shave. But first, security procedures."

A dirty blonde kid walks in, cannot be older than… older than Boone. Jack's breath clogs his throat. Wonders if he will ever get the chance to explain to a mother the death of her son, and her daughter. What was once the worst part of his job, wishes now he has to do a hundred times rather than live the nightmare that has become his life.

A familiar hood is drawn over his head. The same nauseating smell of sweat and mud. A faint scent of something pleasant. A memory from a day she cried into his shoulder and rested her forehead to his. A guilt-ridden smile visits his lips momentarily. Kate's hood.

No time or strength to struggle or attempt an escape as his wrists are temporarily released from their constraints before they are bound behind his back. Ropes around his ankles cut loose with a rusty knife.

Two more walk casually into his cell. One whispers to Henry and the other hauls him off the chair.

Piercing sunlight and a gust of wind slap him as he is pushed out of the cell. He drags his feet on rough concrete ground. Tries not to wince with every step.

"Hope we are not moving too fast for you, Jack."

Three giggle scornfully. He bites the rotting gag and clenches his fists behind his back.

He trip. Pulls himself up quickly. Travels with slower strides.

A shove from behind and he tumbles again.

"Boys, play nice. We have to treat the doctor well. He did save my life after all. Didn't you, Jack?"

Glares through the veil. Curses the day he helped a stranger, cleaned and sutured a wound. Wishes he had listened to a soldier. Knows it is far too late for regrets.

A sudden halt in their step, after kilometers of silent gray corridors. Keys rattle on a chain. A key into a lock and three clicks. A door swings open. Two steps forward.

"Welcome to your new home, Jack."

Words drip like bitter sap.

A gun cocks, targets his head. Ropes loosen around his wrists. Virulent struts and a door slams.

Bruised arms struggle for release from their restraints. A few minutes later and he is working on the knot of the black hood. Gladly removes a gag and spits our sour blood.

Grips the hood tightly. Separate her scent from the flood of odors invading his nostrils. Closes his eyes and apologizes to a sweet smelling cloth.

Opens his eyes and takes in his new surrounding. Four walls, surprisingly white and clean. A polished, stamped concrete floor. Two bright fluorescent lights. A white metal door. No handle. A white plastic basket in the corner. A thin mattress by the far wall. A water basin. A white plastic table and matching chair. A piece of bread and a small bottle of water. A notebook. A black felt-tip pen. A pair of dark blue jeans and a grey t-shirt thrown casually on the chair. He recognizes them as his. No windows. All corners dulled. No way out. No escape possible. No suicide possible.

A searching glance towards the ceiling. A surveillance camera stares menacingly at him from the corner.

Painfully, he removes his shirt. Walks over to the basin. Knees crack as he kneels down. Washes his head and face with lukewarm water. Futilely tries to wash away the accumulating emotions of two months. Wets his shirt and runs in over his chest, down his neck and back. Throws it carelessly into the basket. Kicks off his jeans and they follow the bloodied shirt.

He changes into the clothes that had been brought. He wonders how and when they managed to bring them from camp. Wonders if they had taken over their camp or hurt anyone else.

Aimless. Helpless. Confused.

He looks through the notebook. Blank pages.

Looks at the bread and water. He hadn't realized how hungry and thirsty he was. Takes a gulp of water, a bite from the bread. Just one. Does not know if he will be given more.

Looks up towards the camera. Walks towards the door. Bangs. Once. Twice. Soundproof.

Paces the room. Tries to make sense of what he can remember. Tries to find a reason of why them. Tries to diagnose the tests he had been subject to. Tries to think of a plan to get out. _Out of where?_

Callused palms run to black hair and fall to his face, rub his eyes.

One thing he needs to know first and foremost.

Looks up at the camera, stares, confrontational and stern,

"Where's Kate?"


	3. Chapter 3

thanks again so much for the reviews, hope you guys are enjoying :D a couple of notes first.

**A.N.1:** like I said not so sure where I'm going with this, but I know now that it is not plot fic per se, with a specific story, plan, storyline… it's not a post-season-2-scenario-for-season-3 kind of fic. I don't know who the Others are and what they are doing to JKS, I guess there are tests, experiments, torture sessions… but I don't think I will be explaining why they took them, what they are doing to them, or how they will escape, if they do. It will basically be descriptions of scenes or moments as experienced from Jack's POV primarily of being held captive, with all the tests, experiments, torture, mind games… he could be experiencing. Make any sense? Is it worth it? Let me know ;) oh and Sawyer might seem a bit OC in this, but not all that much, just think of Sawyer in "?"

**A.N.2:** In italics are quotes from Gibran Khalil Gibran's _The Prophet._ And there could be more in coming chapters if there are coming chapter. Depends on you guys. Tell me if it works.

**Disclaimer: **_Lost_ is not mine. _The Prophet_ is not mine. The earphones I am using are actually my sister's.

**Captivity **

Chapter 3

Wakes up in a new setting. Mind goes back to most recent memories. Remembers being taken by Henry and three others to a new room. Clothes, food, mattress, notebook, camera. Remembers the smell of gas. Then drowsiness.

They put him to sleep. Moved him to a new room.

God knows what else they did.

Eyes travel to his arms. Wounds cleaned. A forth needle mark. Rubs his forehead. Frustration and fury.

Investigates his new surrounding. Same white walls. Same concrete floor. Same metal door. Only no furniture but a chair, a notebook and marker, and a monitor hung on one of the walls. Eyes scan the ceiling. Surveillance camera.

Shakes his head in despair. Takes a moment to contemplate. Curiosity gets the most of him. Walks over to the monitor. Flicks it on.

Arms crossed as the blurry image takes a moment to focus.

A room. Similar to the one he was taken to earlier. White walls, concrete floor, metal door, no windows. Slightly bigger. More rectangular than square. Not a single mattress but a wooden bunk bed. A single table and chair. Two plates.

Attention travels to lower bunk. A familiar form sitting tensely. Back against the wall. A book in hand. Gibran's _The Prophet._ Sawyer. Clean and shaven. New clothes. Teal shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Dark jeans. A new pair of glasses.

His attention diverts as a new figure walks into the shot. Pacing away from the camera. Hair tied carelessly with a blue hair band. A green shirt. Beige pants. A bruised left shoulder. Turns to face the camera. Face pale and tear stained. Teeth biting nails mercilessly. Worryingly frail. Probably has not eaten for days.

His eyes travel to the table in the corner. Two plates. One empty. The other untouched. Chicken. Shakes his head.

"she's a vegetarian," mumbles to himself.

"hey, Kate," the southerner puts down his book and pulls himself to the edge of the bed, "you have to eat something."

"I'm fine." Stubborn.

"You're not fine!" he snaps, "starving yourself to death ain't gonna bring him back," voice lower and compassionate.

She swallows a sob. Jack's fingers rub his forehead.

"It's been ten day, Sawyer. Ten days! And they have told us nothing about him, where he is, what they have done to him," her voice shaky, "I don't know if he's alive or dead. I don't know if I will ever see him again. Sawyer, I can't…"

She drops herself hopelessly on the bed and stares ahead. Sawyer scoots over to her side.

_Let not the waves of the sea separate us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory. You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces._

"Kate," he treads on foreign territory, tries to help and get through, "Kate, this is Jack we're talking about. He's the smartest guy I know, and he's got damn good survival skills. If anyone of us is fine, it's him. As much as I'd hate to say it, he is the one who has kept over fifty people alive for two months, I'm sure he can take care of himself. And you know he would not want you to be doing this to yourself, he'd want you to eat something, stay healthy and strong. We will see him soon. Ok?"

_Your friend is your needs answered. … that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain._

A surprised, grateful crease to Jack's brow.

Discretely unconvinced, she nods, a thankful smile momentarily on her lips.

One last check, a pat to her shoulder, and Sawyer scoots away, one eye on his book, one watching her.

Kate drops herself from the bed. Arms around legs tucked close to her chest. Stares longingly at the camera above.

_And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation._

The screen goes blank. Frustration uncontrollable. A chair thrown towards the door. A fist hit forcefully against a wall. Bleeding knuckles. He does not care.

Bloodshot eyes glare at the camera,

"I want to see her. LET ME SEE HER!"

Veins pop from a creased forehead.

"I need to see her."

Reviews make me smile, and update ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry it took a bit longer. Thanks for reviews :hugs:

**A.N.1: **this chapter is more drabble-y

**A.N.2:** In italics are quotes from Gibran Khalil Gibran's _The Prophet._

**Disclaimer: **_Lost_ is not mine. _The Prophet_ is not mine.

**  
Captivity **

Chapter 4

Darkness. A faint sound of electricity flowing freely through wires. A sudden flash of light. Red. He spins around.

Two words projected on the wall behind him. Red on black. _Adam Rutherford. _A wave of guilt runs through him.

_It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind, that you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself._

Another flash. He turns to his right. _Joanna Wexler._ Perspirations trickles nervously down his forehead. Hair stands on his arms.

Breath quick and perplexed.

_And for that wrong committed must you knock and wait a while unheeded at the gate of the blessed._

Eyes move around to meet a new name. _Boone Carlyle_. Blood shudders in his veins.

_Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man._

His father was right.

_Shannon Rutherford._

Body freezes and melts all at once.

_And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone. _

One name after another. One failed surgery, one failed patient, one failed friend after another.

_Edward Mars_

An image of a dying man burn his vision.

_And he falls for those ahead of him, though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone._

Proof that he will never be good enough.

_Beth._

Proof that he will never have what it takes.

_Libby_

Sinful hands breaking life to welcome death.

_The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked. The condemned is the burden bearer for the guiltless and unblamed._

All the times that he should have but did not.

_Ana Lucia Cortez._

All the scars in his conscience.

_And how shall you punish those whose remorse is already greater than their misdeeds?_

The nightmares of his past coming to haunt his present hell.

A cell built with the names of his failures. A cell built of his own crimes.

Red on black.

Light and dark.

One more spot left unmarked. Only for a few seconds.

Until, _Christian Shepard_.

Enough.

_Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. _

Rage erupting from every fiber of his being.

"What do you want? WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

Pitch black.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** in italics are quotes from Gibran's the prophet.

**Disclaimer:** everything you recognize ain't mine. Lost belongs to JJ, Damon and the rest of the geniuses behind it. The Prophet is Gibran's.

Anyone up for some Jate? Enjoy :D

**Captivity **

Chapter 5

Reality no longer exists. He can not tell day from night. He does not know the difference between dream world and the real world. Consciousness or beyond that.

He remembers only glimpses since their capture. Almost oblivious to what they have been doing to him.

Almost sure he is not being physically tortured. His body aches from something else. Needle marks increasing along his arms. Three surgical scars. Two on his abdomen. One along his back. Intersecting a scar from stitches made on a day she did not run.

Ire not that they are there, but at his ignorance of why, how and when.

Despises being so vulnerable, so defenseless, so dominated.

Abhors the fact that Kate and Sawyer are being held because of him, that he does not know what they want from them or what they have been doing to them, that he has done nothing to help them.

His eyes flicker open to a new surrounding.

A clumsily constructed room. Two meters by meters. Pieces of formwork lying around. No windows. Metal door. Lock and chain on the other side.

Vicious bickering diverts his attention from a freshly painted ceiling.

"Move along sweetheart," a vulgar voice of an Other.

"Not until you tell where you are taking me!"

Kate.

_And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course._

"Don't worry. You'll like this Katie," laughs at his own derogation.

"Get you hands off of me!"

He has to see her.

"Feisty, aren't we?" Sour chuckles.

Door opens.

"Get in!"

Door slams.

"Hey! Hey! Come back! What's going on?"

She's right next to him. Behind the door.

_When love beckons you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep._

"Kate?"

"Jack? Jack! Is that you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me. How… Are you okay?"

"Oh my God, Jack. They told me they will let me see you, I thought they were lying. I… I'm fine…:

"Did they do anything to you? Did they hurt you?"

"No, no, I'm okay. They haven't done anything. They've just kept me and Sawyer locked up. I've… we've been worried about you. They wouldn't tell us anything or let us see you."

Her tears matching his.

"Kate, I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I should have told you about Michael from the beginning…"

"No, Jack. Stop. This is not your fault. You couldn't have known… Are… Are you ok?"

"I'm… fine,"

She hears the crack in his voice.

"Jack…"

She doesn't buy it.

"Kate, I'm fine. I guess. I don't know. I've barely been conscious,"

Says her name again. Needs to say her name.

_For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning._

…

So much to say. Not sure where to start.

_Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To know the pain of too much tenderness._

…

"Do you know what they want from us?"

"No,"

"Do you think we'll make it out of here?"

"Yes. Yes I do,"

He is not that sure.

"Jack, I'm scared,"

"I know. I am scared too,"

That he is sure of.

_To sleep with prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips._

…

"Did you mean what you said?"

"When?"

"The night Michael came back,"

_To be wounded by our own understanding of love and to bleed willingly and joyfully._

"Yes. Yes I did… did you?"

"No, no. I only said it because I thought that was how you felt,"

"Kate,"

…

Silence. Not awkward. Soothing. Comforting. Promising.

_The deeper the sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain._

Eyes wander. Seek ideas. Fall upon the formwork. A piece of metal wire, once used to fasten steel rods, forgotten carelessly under a wooden plank.

Smiles wide.

"Kate, is there a lock on your side of the door?"

"erm, yeah, why?"

"Do you know how to pick a lock?"

"I do, but I just don't happen to have my lock picking kit on my right now,"

"You're spending too much time with Sawyer,"

Chuckle.

""Sorry,"

"I'm sliding something under the door. Use that,"

"Okay, got it,"

"So can you do it?"

…

She can do it. She can pick the lock.

And then there was only them.

How long it did not matter.

Words not necessary to communicate what they need to say.

For the first time they understood perfectly just by being them.

Together.

_And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips._

**AN:** ok I am not sure you can pick a lock with a metal wire, but at least it got Jack and Kate together, right?

_r&r:D_


	6. Captivity

Ok, here's what I did, I was posting this as chapters, but they are not really chapters, but more descriptions of moments from Jack's experience as hostage. So I stopped after the fifth and decided that once they are done I will post them as one, and here they are. The first five have already been posted, the last three are new.

Oh and please review : pretty please :)

* * *

**Title:** Captivity

**Character - Pairing:** Jack - Jack/Kate

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** Post "Live Together, Die Alone". Jack POV of being held captive. Angst.

**Spoilers:** up till season 2 finale

**Disclaimer:** Not mine sniff, sniff

**AN:** Some parts include italicized phrases from Gibran's "The Prophet", which also is not mine.

* * *

_**Pain**_

His consciousness returned to him like an electric shock rupturing through his body, his breath escaping his throat with a jerk.

As his mind and body took to adjust to his surroundings, his senses twitched back.

A flood of memories, a confusing film reel of deception, guilt and anxiety. Michael's betrayal. Hurley's release. Their capture. Him. Sawyer. Kate. _Kate_. That look they shared. Fear. Trust. Blame. Confidence. Regret. Forgiveness. Something more. Something else. The emerald green gaze forever burnt in his mind, engraved inside him somewhere, deep down.

His eyes winced as the dull, piercing light of a swinging light bulb above him penetrated his dilated pupils. Painfully, things around him started to take form and shade. A room, he figured out first, a cell. Stone walls with peeled off, antiquated paint, that could have been white at some point in time, has now taken a dirty beige color instead, a rusty metal door to his right locked from the outside with a decaying chain and lock, he assumed, a dirty leaky ceiling, painted lazily one hot afternoon by a reluctant volunteer, patches of dirty colors, a cracked window high up on the wall facing him, mold growing freely around the leaky frame, a spider living comfortably on its sill. A window impossibly high to look out through, tragically too small to escape from.

Solitude.

Numbness in his fingers excruciated his sense of touch back into him. Throbbing pain pinching at his leg. Burning stings wrapping his wrists. Slashing whips of anguish slithering along his spine. Tied to a creaking, wooden chair, one leg shorter than the rest.

His sense of smell stung his throat as an agonizing odor penetrated his nostrils. Banefully the indistinct odors started to wreak familiar through his mind. Rust, mold, humidity, sweat and blood.

His own blood. He realized as its taste flooded his mouth, copper and pain. His mouth dry and gagged, with the nauseating taste of pain, fear, anger and guilt screeching down to his gut.

His hearing came back last with the faint sound of barefoot struts on a worn out concrete floor outside his door. Three distinct strides. One of a man whose rough, callused hand once held an out-dated gun to Kate's terrified neck, a man whose words and size too large for his name. One of a woman, who seems to walk among and above men, more mysterious than the men themselves, with an articulation that trickles with poise and malice. In front of them, the stride of a man whose small frame is compensated by the confidence in his voice, the diablerie in his eyes, and the conspiracy in his every move. A man who knows too much, says too little and manipulates with every breath.

Three rusty hinges squeak as a termite-infested door is flung open. The three pair of feet now stride on softer ground. Muffled voices dripping with cruelty soak through the decaying walls separating him from them.

A wicked laugh; as a new irate voice joins the disdainful three. Unlike theirs, he hears her voice clearly.

"Where's Jack?"

"What did you do to him?"

"You've been telling me the same lies for the past three days!"

"I want to see him!"

_Three days?_ _He's been out for three days?_ His mind struggles to comprehend.

'Kate!', he tries to call out to her, his voice betraying him. 'KATE!', he strains again. His own words stabbing at his throat, failing to escape his lips.

Anger in her voice, straining to hide the fear behind the bravado of confidence and contempt.

He can see her. Standing full of confidence, matching Henry glare for glare. Shoulders straight, arms crossed, keeping her guard up against all intrusions and intruders. She bites her lower lip when Henry is not looking, clenches her jaw tight when he is. Her tears glaze her eyes, too stubborn and determined to reveal themselves to her captors. Armed by her stubbornness, rage and concern, she stands up against the evil she knows too little about.

The fifth voice is all too familiar yet surprisingly different. The southern brawl of a man who can be his worst enemy or his best friend. He hears him grunt his discontent and spit a scornful of fury at at a man he had once told that it was not over yet between them. His voice drenched with hatred and sincerity, and a faint sense of genuine concern.

Their voices tell him they have not been harmed, physically at least. Yet her silent sobs, and the occasional hushed cracks in his sputter, tell him there are wounds there too deep and too numerous to heal, not even with time.

Another snerk, and the door slams shut. The struts of three mysteries faint away.

He hears her shoulders drop, tears still refusing to fall from their fortress. He sees him walk up to her. Tired hands to weakened shoulders. A small, grateful smile and she shrugs him off, walks away. His head shakes. Strands of dirty, blonde hair wave hopelessly along a fatigued frown.

He hears her throw herself down, something softer, a matress, old, dirty and worn-out. She does not care. He sees her face fall in her hands, and tears, once obstinate, give in and flood down her face, stained and wet. He hears her quiet sobs, shoulders shaking slightly, knees up against her chest.

She gives herself a minute, a minute of unguarded vulnerability, before she pulls herself together, wipes her face, pulls a tendril of disheveled hair behind her ear. Smiles, embarassed, at the man who had been watching from a distance.

He returns the smile, regretful and sympathetic. Asks her absurdly if she is fine, she nods, lies that she is and looks away. He lets his mind wonder if she would have cried had it been him, if she would have yelled at the others like she did for Jack. He shakes off the thought, scorns himself for it, knows himself the fool to even consider, knows he will never be Jack, especially not for Kate.

Jack's head drops, wrists and ankles pull at their restraints, blood seeping through mud-stained ropes. Tries once more to call for her, but not before consciousness escapes him, again.

* * *

_**Frustration**_

"Jack."

"Jack."

A hoarse unforgiving voice calls his name. His eyelids blink. Once. Twice.

"Jack!"

And he wakes.

"Good to finally have you with us, Jack."

Words not said but sneered from a source his vision to weak to give form to.

"For a while there, we thought we'd lost you, Jack."

His name is spit in his face as though it were an insult.

He tries to move. Still bound to a chair.

"We've been waiting for you to wake up for a week."

He looks around him. Vaguely familiar room, smell, light. Excruciating pain.

"You must be quite hungry and very dehydrated, Jack."

Derision in those words. He tries to move. Overwhelming anguish dashes through his body. Every muscle burns. Head throbs with a million questions.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions."

Jack tries to talk. Dryness. Weak-old blood occupies his mouth. Gagged. Heavy eyes drop to his arms. Three needle marks. Recognizes from a life he once had. Blood tests. Strains to remember how or when.

"Don't worry, nothing serious. We had to run a few tests. Probably what kept you out for a week."

Kate and Sawyer. They were not tested. Somehow he knows. Remembers faintly two voices bickering, through a mold infested stone wall, with three. Others.

"I apologize if your current quarters are not as lavish as the one you had provided for me once."

Henry.

"Don't worry. We will be moving you to some place more appropriate in a few minutes."

Rage. Confusion. Weakness. Guilt.

"We'll get you some new clothes. Water and food. Maybe let you shave. But first, security procedures."

A dirty blonde kid walks in, cannot be older than… older than Boone. Jack's breath clogs his throat. Wonders if he will ever get the chance to explain to a mother the death of her son, and her daughter. What was once the worst part of his job, wishes now he has to do a hundred times rather than live the nightmare that has become his life.

A familiar hood is drawn over his head. The same nauseating smell of sweat and mud. A faint scent of something pleasant. A memory from a day she cried into his shoulder and rested her forehead to his. A guilt-ridden smile visits his lips momentarily. Kate's hood.

No time or strength to struggle or attempt an escape as his wrists are temporarily released from their constraints before they are bound behind his back. Ropes around his ankles cut loose with a rusty knife.

Two more walk casually into his cell. One whispers to Henry and the other hauls him off the chair.

Piercing sunlight and a gust of wind slap him as he is pushed out of the cell. He drags his feet on rough concrete ground. Tries not to wince with every step.

"Hope we are not moving too fast for you, Jack."

Three giggle scornfully. He bites the rotting gag and clenches his fists behind his back.

He trip. Pulls himself up quickly. Travels with slower strides.

A shove from behind and he tumbles again.

"Boys, play nice. We have to treat the doctor well. He did save my life after all. Didn't you, Jack?"

Glares through the veil. Curses the day he helped a stranger, cleaned and sutured a wound. Wishes he had listened to a soldier. Knows it is far too late for regrets.

A sudden halt in their step, after kilometers of silent gray corridors. Keys rattle on a chain. A key into a lock and three clicks. A door swings open. Two steps forward.

"Welcome to your new home, Jack."

Words drip like bitter sap.

A gun cocks, targets his head. Ropes loosen around his wrists. Virulent struts and a door slams.

Bruised arms struggle for release from their restraints. A few minutes later and he is working on the knot of the black hood. Gladly removes a gag and spits our sour blood.

Grips the hood tightly. Separate her scent from the flood of odors invading his nostrils. Closes his eyes and apologizes to a sweet smelling cloth.

Opens his eyes and takes in his new surrounding. Four walls, surprisingly white and clean. A polished, stamped concrete floor. Two bright fluorescent lights. A white metal door. No handle. A white plastic basket in the corner. A thin mattress by the far wall. A water basin. A white plastic table and matching chair. A piece of bread and a small bottle of water. A notebook. A black felt-tip pen. A pair of dark blue jeans and a grey t-shirt thrown casually on the chair. He recognizes them as his. No windows. All corners dulled. No way out. No escape possible. No suicide possible.

A searching glance towards the ceiling. A surveillance camera stares menacingly at him from the corner.

Painfully, he removes his shirt. Walks over to the basin. Knees crack as he kneels down. Washes his head and face with lukewarm water. Futilely tries to wash away the accumulating emotions of two months. Wets his shirt and runs in over his chest, down his neck and back. Throws it carelessly into the basket. Kicks off his jeans and they follow the bloodied shirt.

He changes into the clothes that had been brought. He wonders how and when they managed to bring them from camp. Wonders if they had taken over their camp or hurt anyone else.

Aimless. Helpless. Confused.

He looks through the notebook. Blank pages.

Looks at the bread and water. He hadn't realized how hungry and thirsty he was. Takes a gulp of water, a bite from the bread. Just one. Does not know if he will be given more.

Looks up towards the camera. Walks towards the door. Bangs. Once. Twice. Soundproof.

Paces the room. Tries to make sense of what he can remember. Tries to find a reason of why them. Tries to diagnose the tests he had been subject to. Tries to think of a plan to get out. _Out of where?_

Callused palms run to black hair and fall to his face, rub his eyes.

One thing he needs to know first and foremost.

Looks up at the camera, stares, confrontational and stern,

"Where's Kate?"

* * *

_**Anger**_

Wakes up in a new setting. Mind goes back to most recent memories. Remembers being taken by Henry and three others to a new room. Clothes, food, mattress, notebook, camera. Remembers the smell of gas. Then drowsiness.

They put him to sleep. Moved him to a new room.

God knows what else they did.

Eyes travel to his arms. Wounds cleaned. A forth needle mark. Rubs his forehead. Frustration and fury.

Investigates his new surrounding. Same white walls. Same concrete floor. Same metal door. Only no furniture but a chair, a notebook and marker, and a monitor hung on one of the walls. Eyes scan the ceiling. Surveillance camera.

Shakes his head in despair. Takes a moment to contemplate. Curiosity gets the most of him. Walks over to the monitor. Flicks it on.

Arms crossed as the blurry image takes a moment to focus.

A room. Similar to the one he was taken to earlier. White walls, concrete floor, metal door, no windows. Slightly bigger. More rectangular than square. Not a single mattress but a wooden bunk bed. A single table and chair. Two plates.

Attention travels to lower bunk. A familiar form sitting tensely. Back against the wall. A book in hand. Gibran's _The Prophet._ Sawyer. Clean and shaven. New clothes. Teal shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Dark jeans. A new pair of glasses.

His attention diverts as a new figure walks into the shot. Pacing away from the camera. Hair tied carelessly with a blue hair band. A green shirt. Beige pants. A bruised left shoulder. Turns to face the camera. Face pale and tear stained. Teeth biting nails mercilessly. Worryingly frail. Probably has not eaten for days.

His eyes travel to the table in the corner. Two plates. One empty. The other untouched. Chicken. Shakes his head.

"she's a vegetarian," mumbles to himself.

"hey, Kate," the southerner puts down his book and pulls himself to the edge of the bed, "you have to eat something."

"I'm fine." Stubborn.

"You're not fine!" he snaps, "starving yourself to death ain't gonna bring him back," voice lower and compassionate.

She swallows a sob. Jack's fingers rub his forehead.

"It's been ten day, Sawyer. Ten days! And they have told us nothing about him, where he is, what they have done to him," her voice shaky, "I don't know if he's alive or dead. I don't know if I will ever see him again. Sawyer, I can't…"

She drops herself hopelessly on the bed and stares ahead. Sawyer scoots over to her side.

Let not the waves of the sea separate us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory. You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces.

"Kate," he treads on foreign territory, tries to help and get through, "Kate, this is Jack we're talking about. He's the smartest guy I know, and he's got damn good survival skills. If anyone of us is fine, it's him. As much as I'd hate to say it, he is the one who has kept over fifty people alive for two months, I'm sure he can take care of himself. And you know he would not want you to be doing this to yourself, he'd want you to eat something, stay healthy and strong. We will see him soon. Ok?"

Your friend is your needs answered. … that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

A surprised, grateful crease to Jack's brow.

Discretely unconvinced, she nods, a thankful smile momentarily on her lips.

One last check, a pat to her shoulder, and Sawyer scoots away, one eye on his book, one watching her.

Kate drops herself from the bed. Arms around legs tucked close to her chest. Stares longingly at the camera above.

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

The screen goes blank. Frustration uncontrollable. A chair thrown towards the door. A fist hit forcefully against a wall. Bleeding knuckles. He does not care.

Bloodshot eyes glare at the camera,

"I want to see her. LET ME SEE HER!"

Veins pop from a creased forehead.

"I need to see her."

* * *

_**Punishment**_

Darkness. A faint sound of electricity flowing freely through wires. A sudden flash of light. Red. He spins around.

Two words projected on the wall behind him. Red on black. _Adam Rutherford. _A wave of guilt runs through him.

_It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind, that you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself._

Another flash. He turns to his right. _Joanna Wexler._ Perspirations trickles nervously down his forehead. Hair stands on his arms.

Breath quick and perplexed.

_And for that wrong committed must you knock and wait a while unheeded at the gate of the blessed._

Eyes move around to meet a new name. _Boone Carlyle_. Blood shudders in his veins.

_Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man._

His father was right.

_Shannon Rutherford._

Body freezes and melts all at once.

_And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone. _

One name after another. One failed surgery, one failed patient, one failed friend after another.

_Edward Mars_

An image of a dying man burn his vision.

_And he falls for those ahead of him, though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone._

Proof that he will never be good enough.

_Beth._

Proof that he will never have what it takes.

_Libby_

Sinful hands breaking life to welcome death.

_The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked. The condemned is the burden bearer for the guiltless and unblamed._

All the times that he should have but did not.

_Ana Lucia Cortez._

All the scars in his conscience.

_And how shall you punish those whose remorse is already greater than their misdeeds?_

The nightmares of his past coming to haunt his present hell.

A cell built with the names of his failures. A cell built of his own crimes.

Red on black.

Light and dark.

One more spot left unmarked. Only for a few seconds.

Until, _Christian Shepard_.

Enough.

_Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. _

Rage erupting from every fiber of his being.

"What do you want? WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

Pitch black.

* * *

_**Freedom**_

Reality no longer exists. He can not tell day from night. He does not know the difference between dream world and the real world. Consciousness or beyond that.

He remembers only glimpses since their capture. Almost oblivious to what they have been doing to him.

Almost sure he is not being physically tortured. His body aches from something else. Needle marks increasing along his arms. Three surgical scars. Two on his abdomen. One along his back. Intersecting a scar from stitches made on a day she did not run.

Ire not that they are there, but at his ignorance of why, how and when.

Despises being so vulnerable, so defenseless, so dominated.

Abhors the fact that Kate and Sawyer are being held because of him, that he does not know what they want from them or what they have been doing to them, that he has done nothing to help them.

His eyes flicker open to a new surrounding.

A clumsily constructed room. Two meters by meters. Pieces of formwork lying around. No windows. Metal door. Lock and chain on the other side.

Vicious bickering diverts his attention from a freshly painted ceiling.

"Move along sweetheart," a vulgar voice of an Other.

"Not until you tell where you are taking me!"

Kate.

_And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course._

"Don't worry. You'll like this Katie," laughs at his own derogation.

"Get your hands off of me!"

He has to see her.

"Feisty, aren't we?" Sour chuckles.

Door opens.

"Get in!"

Door slams.

"Hey! Hey! Come back! What's going on?"

She's right next to him. Behind the door.

_When love beckons you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep._

"Kate?"

"Jack? Jack! Is that you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me. How… Are you okay?"

"Oh my God, Jack. They told me they will let me see you, I thought they were lying. I… I'm fine…:

"Did they do anything to you? Did they hurt you?"

"No, no, I'm okay. They haven't done anything. They've just kept me and Sawyer locked up. I've… we've been worried about you. They wouldn't tell us anything or let us see you."

Her tears matching his.

"Kate, I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I should have told you about Michael from the beginning…"

"No, Jack. Stop. This is not your fault. You couldn't have known… Are… Are you ok?"

"I'm… fine,"

She hears the crack in his voice.

"Jack…"

She doesn't buy it.

"Kate, I'm fine. I guess. I don't know. I've barely been conscious,"

Says her name again. Needs to say her name.

_For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning._

…

So much to say. Not sure where to start.

_Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To know the pain of too much tenderness._

…

"Do you know what they want from us?"

"No,"

"Do you think we'll make it out of here?"

"Yes. Yes I do,"

He is not that sure.

"Jack, I'm scared,"

"I know. I am scared too,"

That he is sure of.

_To sleep with prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips._

…

"Did you mean what you said?"

"When?"

"The night Michael came back,"

_To be wounded by our own understanding of love and to bleed willingly and joyfully._

"Yes. Yes I did… did you?"

"No, no. I only said it because I thought that was how you felt,"

"Kate,"

…

Silence. Not awkward. Soothing. Comforting. Promising.

_The deeper the sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain._

Eyes wander. Seek ideas. Fall upon the formwork. A piece of metal wire, once used to fasten steel rods, forgotten carelessly under a wooden plank.

Smiles wide.

"Kate, is there a lock on your side of the door?"

"erm, yeah, why?"

"Do you know how to pick a lock?"

"I do, but I just don't happen to have my lock picking kit on my right now,"

"You're spending too much time with Sawyer,"

Chuckle.

""Sorry,"

"I'm sliding something under the door. Use that,"

"Okay, got it,"

"So can you do it?"

…

She can do it. She can pick the lock.

And then there was only them.

How long it did not matter.

Words not necessary to communicate what they need to say.

For the first time they understood perfectly just by being them.

Together.

_And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips._

* * *

_**Memory**_

A week since he had seen Kate. A week of tests. Wires, tubes and blinking lights. Strange faces. Dispassionate voices. Harsh hands stab his porous forearms with sterilized needles. Draw blood. Inject fluids. His medical knowledge comforts him that nothing is dangerous. Intrusive but safe.

He is told very little. Despite his questions. Knows not the why or for how long.

Ironic comfort in the knowledge of why she is here. A cynical voice a few days earlier, spat in his face as they were prepping him,

"you know they only brought the other two only to make you cooperate. We just keep them locked in that room. They're fun to watch. That chick is pretty hot."

She will not be hurt as long as he cooperates.

Comfort in the memory of a kiss stolen in captivity.

A mild anesthetic streaming through his veins.

Safety in the memory of longing fingers running through cascading hair.

Consciousness refusing to take its leave.

Solace in the memory of arms wrapping around his waist seeking comfort, safety, truth, passion.

Eyes watch as a blade teases his skin before invading the flesh above his hip in a jagged river of red.

Relief in the memory of words whispered over the dead silence of fear.

Surgical instruments, toys of a past now gone forever, play with his skin and flesh, drip with his blood.

Respite in the memory of a dancing emerald gaze and a mutinous pink smile.

Consciousness finds its way out as the last glimmer of light off a blade strikes his vision.

Surviving off a promise made with every ardent touch over every grateful curve. A promise made with every breath still lingering on every inch of a longing body. A promise made with every desirous kiss cherished as a first; perpetuated as a last.

* * *

_**Courage**_

A game of cat and mouse does not describe it. A mouse can run and hide, and often has a few tricks up his sleeve. He is a lab rat. He can yell and scream and make demands to a tiny camera but in the end of the day, they are free to do whatever they want.

He can refuse to cooperate but all they need to do is release gas into his room and he is out. He can try to physically resist them when they come, but his muscles have been injected with too many drugs it hurts to lift his eyelids.

This last trip however he participated in voluntarily. He was given breakfast, clean clothes and a note that said "Henry" wants to see him. Led through a long carpeted hall, hooded, but walking steadily and confidently. Surprised when he was uncuffed, dehooded and left with any guards in an empty room. Painted white walls with a textured finish. Clean white carpet. White leather sofas with wooden armrests and brown cushions lay casually around. A wooden coffee table.

Jack waits, arms folded across his chest until his host arrives. He walks in, a wicked grin and nods acknowledgingly at Jack.

Knows he has not much of it, Jack wastes no time

"Why don't you let them go?"

An amused eyebrow is raised.

"If you only need them to make me cooperate. I'm cooperating. You don't need them. Let them go."

"You've always been a rational man Jack, haven't you?"

Head shakes from frustration.

"What makes you think we don't have plans for them?"

"Your minions talk too much."

"What makes you think they know anything?"

"Let them go."

"Not here for chit chat, are you?"

"We both know you did not bring me here to talk about the weather."

"No that would be unfair seeing as you haven't witnessed the weather in three weeks, right?"

"Cut the crap."

"Where were we?"

"Kate and Sawyer. Let them go."

"Why?"

"You don't need them. I am doing everything you want me to."

"Not that you have much of a choice, do you?"

"True. I am sure you know I won't be doing anything to risk their lives. And I know that if you let them go and I piss you off you are very much capable of getting them back and inflicting unimaginable pain on them."

"And you care too much about them to put your friends in such danger?"

"Yes."

"Is this why you brought them along knowing that Michael was betraying you?"

"That's not the same."

"Yes I know, you had a plan, right?"

Shakes his head.

"Don't you even want to know what we are doing to you?"

"Nothing dangerous, yet. Standard tests. None of which will kill me."

"Care much to know why?"

"Won't make sense I'm sure. Won't make it easier or make it stop. Maybe the truth is not always helpful."

"Not what you would have said a couple of months ago, right?"

"Your perspective on things changes in the light of some circumstances."

A frowning man nods.

"So you are willing to risk yourself to what you know not much about in return for the freedom of two people you barely know?"

"Yes."

"Are you really that good?"

Sneers.

"She thinks that too, doesn't she?"

"Keep her out of this."

"Wouldn't that be hard considering the topic of our discussion?"

"The topic of our discussion is you letting Sawyer and Kate go in return for my full cooperation."

"Do you love her?"

"That's none of your business."

"It's not?"

"No it's not."

"Does she love you?"

Clenches jaw.

"How about we let Sawyer go and keep Kate?"

"No, both."

"What if we let Sawyer go, keep Kate, and let you see her once a week?"

A beat. Scorns himself.

"No. Both go."

"Do you honestly think it is safer for them back out there?"

"Maybe not. But I'm sure they would rather be out there, given whatever is out there, than be held prisoners for no reason what so ever."

"So it's their freedom versus their safety?"

"They are not safe here."

"Maybe not, but in here you at least know what you are dealing with. Do you even know what it is you are dealing with out there?"

"We might not know what is out there, but we don't really know what is in here really, and we managed to survive two months out there already."

"Be reasonable Jack. You call that survival?"

"We managed."

"Didn't you bury in two months more people than you have all you life?"

Nods regrettably.

"Isn't it time you started to look at things in more than just black and white and understand that not everything is what you see it at first?"

"I don't see things in black and white."

"You're right. You are changing. You have started to see the grays. You never would have thought it were possible for you to fall in love a criminal but you have, haven't you?"

No response. Glares.

"Isn't it time that you tried to look at us differently and see us as something different than what you have drawn us to be?"

"You kidnap, kill, abduct children, do tests on pregnant women, manipulate, threaten. I can't see you as anything else than what you are."

"You think everything is what you have always known it to be? Haven't you realized that everything on this island is different?"

Refuses to get dragged along into what he knows very little about.

"Let's get back to Kate and Sawyer."

"You don't give up do you?"

"No."

"Are you jealous of Sawyer, being with her alone in a cell for so long? Are you afraid they might have done something?"

"I am not jealous of Sawyer."

"Wouldn't you have taken advantage of the situation if you were in his place? Or is it that you trust her?"

Scowls.

"Do you think either of them would have done the same for you as you are willing to do for them?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. But what I think they might have or have not done were our situations reversed does not change my position. You let them go and you get my full cooperation. No escape attempt. No questions. No bullshit."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Will you let them go?"

"No."

Wicked smile. Gets up. Walks away.

* * *

_**Home**_

Sunlight.

Blinks once. Twice. Light pierces his eyes and sends and excruciating pain through his head.

Shuts his eyes again and tries to move. Arm and legs numb. Figures he is lying down, on grass. Sunlight and fresh air. Outdoors.

Strangled voices running closer. Strains to hear.

Blinks again and squints. Voices closer. Another attempt to move and he sits up, painfully. Looks around. Familiar jungle. Strains to remember how he got here. Nothing.

Head drops. Palm shields the sun and rubs his forehead. Can not stop the flood of thoughts through his mind. Did he escape? Was he let go? Was this another test? Mind game? Dream?

Footsteps getting closer. Voices clearer. Calling his name. Looks up. Before his eyes can focus she is on her knees facing him. Her hands find his face. Soft skin caresses the rough. His name on her lips, affection, fear and hope.

A minute to register. His arms quickly wrap around her waist and pull her onto his lap. Her arms snake around his neck. His face buried in her hair. Lets out a breath he had been holding for weeks. Her fingers dance on the back of his neck. And she holds him tight. Fearing it would all end if she lets go. Kisses his forehead and along his jaw line.

All pain subsides.

He pulls her tighter. Needs nothing else but to touch her.

Her hands back on his face. Bring his head up and catches his gaze. His hands never leave her sides. Can not stop touching her. Holding her. Her hand on his cheek. Turns slightly and kisses palm.

"Jeez, Freckles, what are you an Olympic sprinter or something?" a panting Sawyer catches up, bends down, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. Looks up through dirty locks, "Hey, Doc. Glad to see you're not dead," and a genuine smile.

Kate gets off his lap and stands up. He strains to get up. A friend offers a hand.

"Thanks," an appreciative smile met with a congenial nod.

"Good thing you're back 'cause this one gets kinda cranky and depressing when you're not around, ain't all that fun,"

Turns to Kate. "Are you ok?" His hand finds her cheek.

A nod, a tear and a smile.

"What… what happened?"

"They came into our cell this morning and said they were moving else somewhere else. They tie are hands, gag us and put hoods over our heads and take us out. Twenty minutes later we're in the jungle and their tying us to a tree. They remove our hoods and gags, and then the Henry guy says 'we thank you for your cooperation. We are done now and you are free to go. Don't bother coming after us. You won't find us. If we need anything else we know where to find you,' and they walk off,"

Does not pause as he explains, Jack's brow furrows.

"We ask him about you, and he says 'just go home', then Kate goes off at him demanding to know where you are, threatens him and curses, seriously she can curse like a sailor that one, and"

She cuts him off,

"as they walk off, Alex comes over and points in your direction,"

Nods, "thanks for finding me,"

Eyes fall back to Kate, whose hand had rested on his forearm and was making its way down to fall into his and clasps it tightly.

"We need to head back,"

"Man, just kiss her already, don't go all gentleman on my account," turns around, slight jealousy, some relief, as the two lean towards each other, takes one step and hears a foreign crunch under his foot. Picks up a piece of paper,

"Hey, Freckles, this one's addressed to you,"

Pulls away regretfully and, confused, reaches for the piece of paper, other hand still in Jack's.

"What is it?'

"It's a letter?"

"A letter? From who?"

"Henry,"

"What does it say?"

Smiles and looks up at Jack, squeezes his hand gently.

Looks teasingly back at Sawyer, "I can't tell you."

Sawyer grunts, "You and Lex Luther pen pals now Lois?"

"Lois?"

"You know, Lois Lane? As in Superman's girlfriend."

Grins.

"C'mon let's go home."

THE END

* * *

So comments, feedback, hate mail, weather faorecasts? anything?


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